‘Assimulative.’

’That’s what I say—­assimulative.  Now, you always talk as if—­oh yes, you do!  No, you mustn’t!  How absurd you are, Frank!  Whenever I try to speak seriously to you, you always do that and spoil everything.  How would you like to discuss Browning if at the end of every sentence somebody came and kissed you?  You wouldn’t mind!  No, I dare say not.  But you would feel that you were not being taken seriously.  Wait till the next time you are in earnest about anything—­you’ll see!’

The meeting was to be at three o’clock, and at ten minutes to the hour Mrs. Hunt Mortimer arrived with two large brown volumes under her arm.  She had come early, she said, because there was to be a rehearsal of the amateur theatricals at the Dixons’ at a quarter-past four.  Mrs. Beecher did not appear until five minutes after the hour.  Her cook had quarrelled with the housemaid, and given instantaneous notice, with five people coming to dinner on Saturday.  It had upset the lady very much, and she explained that she would not have come if she had not promised.  It was so difficult to follow poetry when you were thinking about the entree all the time.

‘Why the entree?’ asked Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, looking up from the book which she held open in front of her.

‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Beecher, who had the art of saying the most simple things as if they were profoundly confidential secrets,—­’My dear, my parlourmaid is really an excellent cook, and I shall rely upon her if Martha really goes.  But she is limited, very limited, and entrees and savouries are the two things in which I cannot entirely trust her.  I must, therefore, find some dish which is well within her capacity.’

Mrs. Hunt Mortimer prided herself upon her housekeeping, so the problem interested her.  Maude also began to feel the meeting less dull than she had expected.

‘Of course there are many things to be considered,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, with the air of a Q.C. giving an opinion.  ’Oyster patties or oyster vol-au-vents—­’

‘Oysters are out of season,’ said Maude.

‘I was about to say,’ Mrs. Hunt Mortimer continued, with admirable presence of mind, ’that these entrees of oysters are inadmissible because they are out of season.  Now curried prawns—­’

‘My husband loathes them.’

’Well, well!  What do you say to sweetbreads en caisse?  All you want are chopped mushrooms, shalots, parsley, nutmeg, pepper, salt, breadcrumb, bacon fat—­’

‘No, no,’ cried Mrs. Beecher despairingly.  ’Anne would never remember all that.’

‘Cutlets a la Constance,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer.  ’I am sure that they are simple enough.  Cutlets, butter, fowls’ livers, cocks’ combs, mushrooms—­’

’My dear, my dear, remember that she is only a parlourmaid.  It is unreasonable.’

’Ragout of fowl, chicken patties, croquettes of veal with a little browning—­’